Lucid

He was soaring again.

The wind pushed against his face, cool and sharp, as he glided over rooftops, arms outstretched. His hands faced downward, pushing invisible force through his palms, keeping him aloft. Beneath him, the neighborhood rolled by in slow motion—tiny cars, trees, and streets, all familiar yet dreamlike. Every shift of his weight sent him higher, the feeling of flight pure and effortless.

He dipped low, skimming just above the treetops. A laugh bubbled up inside him. There was no fear, no limit. The world below was wide open, and he was in complete control. With just a thought, he could change direction, speed, or altitude. He was free.

He floated down gently, touching the ground without so much as a sound. The dream shifted slightly, but he stayed in control, knowing that here, anything was possible.

He woke up smiling, the feeling of weightlessness lingering as the sun streamed through his window. Another good start.

He stretched and rolled out of bed, the morning light already energizing him. The dream still played on repeat in his mind, but what felt even better was the knowledge that the day ahead could be shaped just like that dream. His choices could steer it anywhere he wanted.

He grabbed a quick breakfast, thinking about all the little things he could do today. Maybe he’d sit with different people in class, try something new at lunch. Every decision was like flying—small shifts that changed the direction of his whole day. There was no pressure, just opportunity.

By the time he got to school, he was already feeling it. His mind was clear, his steps light. He walked into first period math with a focus he hadn’t had before. And it wasn’t about perfection; it was about seeing where each choice led. He decided to ask one more question than he usually would, and it led to a conversation that helped him finally understand a tricky problem.

At lunch, he chose a different spot to sit. Not because he had to, but because why not? The view was better from there, and the conversation around him felt lighter, more fun. The day flowed smoothly, every small decision nudging things forward in a way that made the whole day feel like it was his.

After school, he was still riding the high of the day when he saw her. She was walking his way, that easy, confident smile on her face. His heart sped up a little, but it wasn’t nerves—it was excitement.

“Hey,” she said, coming to a stop in front of him. “There’s a party tonight. Wanna come?”

The question hung there, but his answer felt effortless, like he’d been waiting for this moment all day. He thought about the dream, about the way every small push had taken him higher, carried him further.

“Yeah, I’d love to.”

As she walked away, he couldn’t help but grin. Today, like his dream, had been shaped by little choices. And it felt pretty good.

The party had been perfect. The park was alive with laughter and the easy flow of conversation, the kind of evening that felt endless and full of possibility. They’d played frisbee as the sun set, streaks of pink and purple sky reflecting off the lake nearby. Everything felt light and carefree.

As the night deepened, the group thinned out, leaving a small circle around one of the picnic tables. He ended up sitting with a few others, and she was there, her laugh soft as she leaned back against the bench, hair falling loosely over her shoulder.

They talked about everything and nothing—school, random jokes, dreams. At some point, he found himself mentioning lucid dreaming, the way he had learned to control them, how he could decide where his dreams would go. “It’s weird,” he said, smiling. “Once I figured it out, it was like I could change anything in the dream, and it made me realize I could kind of do that in real life, too. Like, everything’s a choice, right?”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “I love that,” she said. “I’m really into altered perspectives too. That’s why I smoke. It’s like… a different way of seeing everything. Sometimes, you just need to change the angle you’re looking from.”

He hadn’t smoked before, but her words hooked him. Changing perspectives—wasn’t that what he was already doing in his dreams? It felt like a natural extension of the control he’d learned to master. Maybe this would give him a new way to see things, to explore.

When she passed him the joint, he hesitated for just a second before taking it, curious to see what would happen. He inhaled, coughed a little, then took another hit, the warm rush spreading through him.

At first, it was pleasant—his body relaxed, the park lights blurred softly, and the laughter around him felt distant, almost musical. But then, things shifted.

Suddenly, his mind was moving faster than his body, racing in a way that felt familiar but out of control. It wasn’t like his dreams, where everything bent to his will. Instead, this felt like a dream gone wrong. Every thought shot off in a hundred directions at once, and he couldn’t slow it down. It was as if the very skill he had honed—his ability to control his dreams, to steer them—was now working against him.

Here, in this altered state, his need for control became a burden. The more he tried to grab hold of his thoughts, the more they spiraled away, wild and untamed. He had trained himself to shape reality, but now reality felt slippery, unmanageable. The control he was so proud of in his dreams had become his greatest liability, because he couldn’t let go.

Every thought felt like a huge truth, and he couldn’t dismiss any of them. His mind latched onto ridiculous ideas, and he believed them for a moment before they morphed into something even stranger. What if he had broken something in his brain? What if he had lost his ability to discern what was real? His skepticism—the thing that kept him grounded in waking life—was gone, replaced by an overwhelming certainty that every fear, every thought, was real.

He needed to get away. The panic tightened in his chest, his breath quickened, and everything around him felt too close, too intense. He couldn’t think straight—he just needed to escape.

Without a word, he stood up, his movements sharp and sudden. She glanced up, concerned. “You okay?” she asked, but he couldn’t explain. His mind was racing too fast, his control slipping through his fingers like sand.

He had to move. He started walking, the cool night air hitting his face, but it wasn’t enough. His thoughts kept spiraling, faster and faster, and no amount of walking seemed to slow them down.

He finally made it home, though he couldn’t remember much of the walk. The cool air had done little to clear his racing thoughts, and by the time he collapsed onto his bed, the panic still clung to him like a weight. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind played tricks on him—wild, intrusive thoughts he couldn’t control, spinning into dark places.

Hours passed, but sleep finally took him. It wasn’t restful, more like a retreat into exhaustion after battling the panic for so long. When he woke the next morning, the light spilling into his room felt harsh, unfamiliar. He sat up slowly, still disoriented from the night before, his heart pounding as though it had been running all night.

Something had changed. It wasn’t the haze of being high anymore—that was gone—but what had replaced it was worse. Fear.

It sat in the pit of his stomach, sharp and cold. Every thought of the night before, every memory of that out-of-control feeling, sent his pulse racing. His mind kept returning to it, over and over, like a dark shadow he couldn’t shake. Whenever he thought about being high, the panic rushed back, as if his body had been wired to respond with fear.

And it wasn’t just about being high. It was like his brain had rewritten itself. Even the things he used to enjoy—like the books he’d devoured for hours—now triggered something deep and unsettling. He’d pick one up, but the moment his eyes traced the familiar words, his chest tightened, and his mind spiraled.

What if this isn’t real?

What if I’m still high?

What if… I’m in hell?

That last thought lodged itself deep. Maybe the fear had been so overwhelming, so consuming, that he’d never actually made it home. Maybe, in his panic, he’d done something worse—something irreversible—and now he was stuck, trapped in some twisted version of reality where he’d never escape the feeling. What if this was it?

The thoughts spiraled until his pulse was thudding in his ears, each beat a reminder of how far he’d lost control. Every effort to calm down made it worse, like pushing against a wave that only grew stronger the harder he resisted. There was no waking up from this. No lucid dreaming trick would save him.

But then, in the midst of the fear, another thought broke through. One that felt almost like relief. Some problems you can’t face head-on. Some problems… you run away from.

He knew that trying to wrestle control of his thoughts wasn’t working. It was like a tug-of-war he couldn’t win. But maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to fight. Maybe the solution was simpler—run. Not in the physical sense, though he felt like doing that too. But mentally, he needed to run away from the fear, to force himself to focus on something else.

So he got up. Pulled on his clothes. Went outside. His legs started moving, carrying him away from his room, from his thoughts, from the suffocating panic that was waiting for him to sit still and sink back into it.

It would come back—sometimes an hour later, sometimes sooner. It hit him like a wave, unexpected and overwhelming. He’d feel it building in his chest, tightening his throat, quickening his breath. Every hour, he found himself back in the same place, running from the same thoughts.

He knew he couldn’t keep running forever. As the days turned into weeks, the panic attacks became a near-constant presence in his life. They came every few hours, sometimes less, sometimes more, but always there, lingering in the background. It wasn’t until after months of running—both figuratively and literally—that he realized something had to change.

That’s when he created the list. It wasn’t complicated—it couldn’t be. He scribbled down the things that truly mattered, the things he could focus on when the panic started to creep in. The list was about simplicity, cutting through the noise. It was a way to remind himself of what was real, what he could control, and what didn’t deserve his energy.

When he felt the fear building, he would pull the list out of his pocket and read it. He became ruthless with his thoughts, removing anything that sent him spiraling. Does this matter? Is this real? Can I control this? If the answer was no, he let it go. He learned to wield skepticism like a sword, slicing away the unnecessary, the irrational, and the overwhelming.

But there were days when the list wasn’t enough—when the fear refused to be quieted. That’s when he found something else to ground him: skills.

It started with origami, something simple and repetitive, something that required precision and focus. Folding paper into clean lines and perfect shapes calmed him in a way nothing else did. The act of creation, of shaping something with his hands, became a kind of therapy. It was a way to feel control over reality again, in a world that often felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

But as his mind settled, his need to create grew. He learned to make chain maille, the repetitive motion of weaving metal rings together giving him a rhythm to focus on. The clink of the rings falling into place, the weight of the finished piece in his hands, reminded him that he could still shape reality—even when his mind felt out of control.

When the panic felt closer, more physical, he turned to martial arts. The movement gave him an outlet for the energy that built up during his attacks. Perfecting each move, gave him a sense of mastery over his body, when his mind refused to cooperate.

On quieter days, when the fear was a dull hum rather than a sharp spike, he would sit and sketch. Drawing lines on a page, sculpting shapes out of clay—it was another form of control, another way to prove to himself that he could still create, still manipulate the world around him. Each piece he completed, no matter how small or simple, was proof that he hadn’t lost his ability to shape reality.

His life became a balance between the list in his pocket and the skills in his hands. When the panic threatened to overwhelm him, he turned to one or the other, sometimes both. Over time, the panic attacks became less frequent. Every hour turned into every few hours, and then, slowly, the gaps between them widened. After six months, the attacks weren’t every day anymore, but they were still there, lurking.

Even as they faded, the panic never fully disappeared, but he had gained something from the struggle. He had learned not just to control his choices, but to control his mind itself. When the list failed, when the simplicity of skepticism wasn’t enough, he had his skills to fall back on—the tactile proof that he could still shape his reality, still bend the world to his will.

Each new skill was a lifeline, a way to fight back against the fear that once consumed him. And with every creation, he rebuilt his sense of control. The list and the skills were two sides of the same coin—both tools to simplify his world, to focus his thoughts, and to keep the panic at bay.

Six months later, he still carried the list in his pocket, but now it was worn and faded, a reminder of how far he’d come. And when the fear returned, as it sometimes did, he knew he could handle it. Because now, he had more than just control over his thoughts—he had control over reality itself.

He was weaker in a way, because he knew he could break. He was stronger, because he knew he could find a solution, even if the solution was running from the problem